


One Of Their Own

by Corvus_Aconitum



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: 4+1, Banter, Capt. O'Keave is not, Capt. Robertson is still an idiot, Fluff, Gen, Sean whump, Team taking care, because he's stubborn, loosely based on 'Guidance' universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 13:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvus_Aconitum/pseuds/Corvus_Aconitum
Summary: Sean Renard is sick and typically stubborn (ignorant) about it.Nick and his colleagues have developed somewhat of a sixth sense for situations like these and act accordingly:4x his subordinates take care of Renard without his knowledge, +1 time he notices alright.





	One Of Their Own

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zwärg (Eremon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eremon/gifts), [shadowolfhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowolfhunter/gifts).



> First of all, I cannot keep my fingers off writing Sean Whump as it seems and, secondly, this has been ghosting around in my head for a while now and has been revived in an inspiring conversation with Zwärg (Eremon). (Captain O'Keave is for you!)  
> I hope you bear with me for bringing my own characters into this again, however short their appearance may be (Captains Robertson and O'Keave).
> 
> And now, enjoy this little piece about caring colleagues and a most stubborn zauberbiest!

 

 **One Of Their Own:**  
  
On Monday morning Sean Renard wakes up feeling less than stellar. Fuck, scratch that, he's feeling like shit! His head pounds like a damn bulldozer ramming a lamppost... repeatedly... crushing it to tiny, misshapen clumps. He wants to snort at his own maudlin thoughts but severely blocked sinuses make that a singularly unpleasant task. He sinks back onto the bed with a groan.  
   
_The felled 'biest.... Someone up there must be laughing their head off right now._  
   
Okay, one last moment of weakness. He'll permit himself one last moment before he'll get up, take back control like he always does and ready himself for the day.  
   
_...because_ nothing _fells this zauberbiest! If numerous attempts on my life by murderous relatives haven't managed this, then a puny cold won't either._

This uplifting thought gets him all the way through donning his clothes and adjusting his attire. When he looks into the mirror he sees a serious, inscrutable man revealing nothing of his inner turmoil. He can almost persuade himself that he's okay, almost ignore his pallor, his pounding head and....

 _Damn, has my throat been this sore moments ago?_  
He squashes this weakness mercilessly, applying layer over layer of masks until he has convinced even himself that he's okay. Making coffee he chugs it down before it's even cooled down any. Honestly, what's a scalded tongue against the rush of caffeine flowing through his veins?  
On his way to the door he exchanges a headache from hell with a dispassionate demeanor and a sore throat with brooding silence.  
   
Upon entering the station he vows to get through the week despite feeling... not at his best. He _needs_ to get through, there's nothing for it. On Friday morning he has to give a speech to ensure that budget for protective gear for Officers on field duty won't be cut down and he'll be damned, if he lets anything come in between.  
   
>>>  
   
Monday evening four men meet in the break room each armed with their own mug of coffee, all of them connected by the same goal. They look for all intents and purposes like they're holding war council and in a way they do, only that their intentions are singularly good ones. It's just necessary to gather all relevant information in order to think up a plan of action to solve their problem.  
   
"He's doing it again."  
"Jep, he is."  
"Taciturn and even more unreadable than normal?"  
"You could say that."  
"Posture stiffly erect and not a single emotion getting through?"  
"He could easily put a stone statue to shame."  
"Staring forbiddingly at anyone for as long as it takes to make them scurry off...?"  
"...In fright...."  
"...And without needing uttering even a single word to achieve that goal."  
All four men nod and exchange knowing glances.  
"Damn it, he's bad off, isn't he?"  
"Uhuh, full blown case of the flu yet he doesn't take sick leave."  
"Or breaks."  
"Or eats and drinks."  
"Or asks anyone for help to lighten his workload at the very least."  
Leaning against the kitchen counter top and crossing his arms over his chest Nick sighs tiredly.  
"We really do have a stubborn Captain, don't we?"  
Franco, Hank and Wu all nod solemnly in return.  
"Yes, exactly as stubborn as a certain Detective I know and work with on daily basis", Hank replies snickering and neatly sidesteps when his partner makes to cuff him over the head.  
"I see what you mean, Hank", Franco comments dryly without even trying to get out of range. Nick knows not to try that with him. There's something like respecting your elders after all. The death glare Franco gets is fierce and admittedly impressive but years of working with Drew have made him all but immune to the whole range of stares and significant glances there is.  
"Any ideas, Gentlemen?", Franco's partner quips, looking at them with a smirk and a raised eyebrow like a professor checking his students' level of knowledge. It's infuriating, it's amusing... it's the Wu they all know and like.  
  
The next half an hour is spent making plans and part taking in a ritual every single cop in the world knows by heart: Drinking brackish, jet black swill, that takes the guise of real coffee, and telling yourself that this is the only thing that gets a cop's brain going.

 

 **1: Wu**  
  
**Tuesday, 4:45pm**  
  
Wu takes up a surreptitious post by the door to the conference room of the station, waiting for a certain someone to appear.

 _Ah, yes, there he is._  
Not loved or even liked but expected all the same: Captain Frank Robertson.  
Needless to say that he snaps out complaints before he's even reached Wu's side:  
"Why isn't Renard here? It was agreed to meet here at five sharp! So, do get him! And on your way to get his holier than thou ass here, go fetch me a decent pot of coffee... which is to say: Not that gnat's piss you usually serve 'round here!"  
Wu refrains from rolling his eyes and replies patiently: "Good afternoon to you too, Sir. First of all it isn't five sharp but rather a quarter to and secondly, the Captain is indisposed... reviewing important budget plans and so on. You will have to come...."  
"Pah!! For a _real_ Captain there's nothing like being indisposed!"  
"Really? What are _you_ doing here then, Sir? ...Instead of being generally indisposed, I mean."  
   
Wu blinks innocently while Robertson turns an alarming shade of red, opening and closing his mouth in the vain attempt to find words to express his anger.  
_Wu, don't let him see your disdain. Maybe the poor man simply doesn't have sufficient vocabulary to express himself. Someone should give him a dictionary... and a very long and detailed description how to use it. But that would require the ability to actually_ read _. What a dilemma.... Oh well, I'm swerving off topic._  
  
"Yes, yes, whatever, Captain. Point of fact is, Captain Renard has more important things to do than bicker about who is the Chief's favorite subordinate, so you will have to come back some other day. Which you would have known beforehand, if you were able to read...I mean, if you _had_ read your memos. Good day, Sir, as always it has been no pleasure to talk to you. I'm sure in your endless wisdom and with your abilities as a leader you'll find the way out. But just in case you don't, let me show you."  
  
The Asian's demeanor is the epitome of polite and deferential and it's obvious that in face of this the other Captain is wondering, if he has only imagined that insulting little speech. It's safe to say that Wu has ushered the man out of the building before he really knows what's happened.  
  
>>>  
  
After getting rid of Robertson Wu returns to his post to wait for yet another Captain. This one is in contrast to the first well liked, possesses more intelligence, strength of will and about any other positive attribute there is and is the very reason for the Sergeant's little charade earlier on.  
  
When Captain Renard turns around the corner, stride purposeful, posture unbent and not showing an ounce of what Wu knows to be a very bad cold, he marvels at their superior's self–control. In accordance to all that Renard is almost able to keep any sign of sickness from bleeding into his normally smooth voice. Of course Wu knows better and views it as his duty to act according to that knowledge.   
  
"Sergeant, correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't there supposed to be a meeting with Captain Robertson at five?"  
  
"Oh he's called it off. He was indisposed.... Yes, I think that's what he said."   
Going by Renard's sardonically raised eyebrow and muted version of his usual smirk, Wu hasn't been the only one being accosted by that little speech about Captains never being indisposed. To Wu it feels like a small victory to have given his Captain a bit of fun at Robertson's expense.  
  
"Why don't you just go on to the canteen now that you've already braved half of the way, Sir?“  
  
>>>  
  
Sitting in an out of the way corner of the station's canteen Renard has to admit two things, if only in the deep recesses of his own mind:  
First of all, having something in your stomach other than coffee – and be it even food of questionable canteen quality – does feel unexpectedly good.  
And secondly, no matter how well he can fool others, he can no longer fool himself: He's really not getting any better. Rather worse. Quickly and painfully.  
Taking sick leave is still out of question.

_What signal would that send to my subordinates? That I am slacking off? Or worse, that I'm an incompetent fool needing the extra time to prepare a damn speech in argument for more safety of my Officers?  
Oh no, I'm not going to project that picture to the people of my Precinct! I'll get through the week without showing weakness even if it's the last thing I do!_

 

 **2: Hank**  
  
**Wednesday, early evening**  
  
Time for 'Operation: Take The Tea'.  
Hank knowing the best places in the city to get high quality coffee and tea (the latter only courtesy of wife No.2) has taken on the task of making Renard drink something hot and ideally healthy that is not coffee. The idea that anything apart from coffee (and beer) is worthwhile to drink may be difficult to sell to any cop but Hank is confident that Renard's refined taste will play in his favor.   
In between working through 'the mounts of hell'... or 'paperwork' as Nick optimistically calls it, he calls 'Spring and Bean' and orders their Special Cup To Go, an extra large cup of a tea of your choice, and asks for delivery.   
He gives Nick a wink. Step 1 of his plan is finished, Step 2 has been set in motion.   
  
>>>  
  
Hank knocks on the door frame to Renard's office.   
"Uuh, Captain, I know there's still much to be done, but do you've got a minute?“  
Renard looks a tad forbidding while he contemplates the matter, making Hank fear that mission 'Take The Tea' is doomed from the start, when finally he motions him inside with a terse wave.  
"What can I do for you, Detective?"   
Hank inwardly winced at Renard's usual rich baritone being reduced to a gravelly pitch by what must be a throat ache from the same place in hell where their paperwork is coming from. So he hasn't imagined the harsh coughing earlier that day either. This is all invitation he'll get - he's keenly aware of that - so he plows on before his Captain loses what little patience has survived the day. He decides to go for _straight and clear_ :  
"The Coffee Shop round the corner has confused my order and given me tea instead of coffee (He holds up his hand to stall a surely biting comment.).... And while that couldn't be of less interest to you, Sir, I have a cup of perfectly fine, high quality 'Milky Oolong', only problem being that I hate tea with a passion. Sooo, I wondered if you would like to have it? I don't want it to go to waste and you're the only one I know round here who enjoys drinking tea."  
The Afro–American waits for the verdict, forcing himself not to fidget while Renard stares him down as if he weren't merely contemplating his answer but intent on looking through to his very soul. To make it short: A kind of attention you never want your superior to give to you.  
"Which Coffee Shop is it from?“  
Hank wants to heave a great sigh of relief. He catches himself in time only barely.   
"Spring and Bean, Sir."   
"Hm. What blend did you say it was?"   
"Milky Oolong. On the cup it says: Leaves are fermented over hot milk, which gives this tea its special milky and creamy taste."   
Hank looks up as if to check if he's got that right. Renard's expression is inscrutable as ever but even that trace of thoughtfulness is enough to tip Hank off.   
  
>>>  
  
When Griffin has asked to come in Renard has briefly considered striding right up to the door, closing it in his Detective's face and nailing it shut for good measure.   
Of course that would be well beneath him, so he's been left with nothing else to do than hear him out.   
Now that he listens to Hank rattling off the description printed on the tall paper cup, his mouth waters and his throat wants to do a happy dance. Inwardly the zauberbiest winces.

 _Happy dance? What am I, some toddler with problems in using my words?!_  
He takes great care to keep any emotion – positive or negative – hidden within and decides to treat this just like a case.   
And a case means asking questions and expecting a report from his subordinate. He asks a few more for good measure and just when the other man looks like he wants to say: 'I can always research it on the internet.' he lets him off the hook and accepts the tea.   
Little does he know that Hank, although quite happy to escape his Captain's questions, is even happier to see the honest to God enjoyment on his face when he takes the first careful sniff and ultimately a first sip of the pro–offered brew.

 

  
**3: Franco**

**Thursday, 1:45 pm**

Franco approaches Renard's office armed with a Tupperware box.

“Sir, you terr'bly busy or may I come in?”

Renard looks up from where he's been frowning down on a sheaf of papers, motioning him in with a wave of his hand.

“Sergeant. What do you've got? A new case?”

Taking off his cap, he lets his eyes sweep over interior and the lone person behind the large desk. The man's posture may be unbent and his demeanor on par with his usual level of awareness, but to be honest and if anybody were to ask Franco, their boss looks bloody lousy. True, he hides most of it behind that near inscrutable poker face of his and keeps his voice low enough to cover how much of a throat ache he has but that still makes him too pale, too glassy eyed.... In short, not their usual sharp as a knife Captain.

 

As to his strategy to get that stubborn man to eat something warm and nourishing: He's never been one for underhanded schemes, that's Wu's part. He's down to earth and straight forward and that's exactly how he'll go about this.

Blimey, he'll use a bit of a white lie to reach his goal, he's not totally green behind the ears, after all.

“Err, actually no, Sir. You see, we had the boys over yes'erday evening for dinner. Well, m' wife cooked for a whole army, she did, m' Sally. Feed growin' boys while you still can, she says. Now we have a shipload of tha' soup... like the one she made for last Police barbecue...."

 

Franco is quite sure that it's only due to his long time on the Force and to Renard respecting such things that he hasn't already been send away. That and something he's seen flicker across those aristocratic features of their Cap. It's just the reaction the Sergeant has hoped for. That twitch of a smile, a softening of that keen gaze at mentioning his wife's home made soup.

 

It's as he's thought: Captain Sean Renard, unflappable, inscrutable and impervious to most vices, likes his wife's soup. More than likes it actually. The boss has told his Sally at that barbecue how delicious it's been and – who would have thought – there's been true emotion showing through instead of polite but empty words being used.

 

Sergeant Franco loves his wife dearly, so when their Cap has complimented her meal with an honest to God smile, he has noted. Noted and kept it in mind to this very day, leading him to ask his Sally to make it again for their very sick and very stubborn superior.

All these thoughts completed, he goes on before Renard remembers how much better his head will be feeling in the blessed quiet of an _empty_ office:

“To make things short, m' wife hates to waste stuff, so here's a container of soup for you. She insisted, you see, an' said you could tell her if it was any good or not when you next see 'er. Don't be shy, she said ...you know her.... She's happy fer ev'ry addit'nal mouth ter feed.”

Franco is aware, that while talking about his family he's slipped back into speech patterns of his birth place, and so is Renard going by the amused quirk to his lips. It makes his tired face light up in a good way.

“Wouldn't want to disappoint such a formidable woman as your wife, Sergeant. So you say she's happy not to see that soup go to waste?”

“Jep, Capt'n, that's the case. An' I'll pass on the compliment.”

Another genuine half–smile from their often aloof commander.

“See that you do.”

With that Renard motions for him to hand the box over and if he remains seated whereas he would have stood to take it off him on any other day, well, Franco won't call him out on it.

“That's a real relief, Sir. Wouldn't have 'eard the end of it, if I came home with that soup in tow. You just need ter warm it up in the microwave, she says. Good day, Sir.”

 

With a last wave he exits the office, puts his cap back on and joins Wu by the coffee machine. Both of them note not ten minutes later how their Captain slips into the station's kitchen with a plastic box only to step out of it a short while later with the same box, contents steaming and ready to eat.

 

 **4: Nick**  
  
**Friday, 9:30 am**  
  
"Nick, you've got everything set up for later?“  
That's Hank coming back from a trip to the loo and preparing to leave the station to gather more witness statements for their current case.  
"Jup, all set and ready. She's in complete support of our strategy and happy to lend a helping hand. Honestly, she may be just as good at biting your head off as our own Captain but choosing between her and Robertson, I would take her every day of the week. At least she has the intelligence and wit to hold a decent conversation with.“  
"That's to say she would wipe the floor with you in any serious argument, buddy.“  
"Haha, funny…. Okay, she just might, but she's also helping us so, yeah, who cares that she's kinda as scary as Renard.“  
Nick flashes that rueful grin which must have had hundreds of girls swooning in his teens (scratch that, it most likely still does to this very day) and gives a one shouldered shrug. Snorting, Hank claps his partner on the back, whispering gleefully:  
"Well, good luck with your mission. Don't let him eat you alive and remember: Sick animals are often the most dangerous. As long as you keep that in mind, you'll do fine…. I think. If you don't and we never see you again, I can always ask Wu to partner up with me.“  
The Grimm glares and, damn, that's an impressive one.  
"Hah, I'll simply visit Wu before I go and tell him, that you want him to be your partner in case of my untimely demise. You'll never hear the end of it and I'll laugh gleefully while I pester you as a ghost. And just so you know, the next round of super fancy, super expensive coffee is on your head, Mister. Just take care that they don't confuse your order with someone else's again.“  
Hank takes Nick's smirk of true evil gamely, waving him off like an annoying fly.   
"Yeah, yeah. Come back safe and call once _the eagle has landed_ , okay?“  
"Will do.“  
  
Nick looks after his partner as he exits bullpen, still grinning. Idly fiddling with his pen (out of boredom, _not_ nervousness) he cannot help thinking back to his earlier talk with the Captain from East Precinct:  
"Captain O'Keave, this is Detective Burkhardt from South Precinct.“  
"Burkhardt…. Why does that ring a bell? Ah, yes, Renard has told me about you. I believe his words have been: 'He's the one Detective simultaneously affording me with highest clearing rates and the most gray hairs.‘ It's safe to say that you've made a name for yourself.“  
"Err…. I'm not entirely sure but I think there's been a compliment in there somewhere.“  
"Oh, I'm confident you'll find out once you mull it over later.“  
Nick chuckles almost against his will.  
"I will, won't I? Now about why I called. I think it's been a few years since anybody called you about any such matter but, well, it's one of _those_ times again.“  
An audible sigh from the other end of the line. He can just picture the female equivalent to their own boss pinching the bridge if her nose.   
"Oh, Jesus, he's doing it again, isn't he? Ignoring his health?“  
"Yes, ma'am.“  
"Taking no breaks at all?“  
"Jup.“  
"Being snarky about it?“  
"Umm, more or less. Mostly he's just brooding. But, yes, he _is_ doing it again…. Although there's no _again_  about it. He's doing that all the time, after all. It's more like this time it won't go away by simply ignoring it.“  
"I am beginning to like you, Burkhardt. Anyway, for being as shrewd and intelligent a man as he is, one would think Renard to be less foolish.“  
Now Nick knows why Wu likes Captain O'Keave so much: Quick wit, sharp tongue and not afraid of Renard in the least.  
"I think I better keep my mouth shut about that one, loyalty to your superior and all that. So, does that mean you will help us?“  
"Why don't you tell me what you have in mind and I'll tell you what I think.“  
"Fair enough, I guess.“  
   
And so Nick has explained matters to the Captain of East Precinct. The outcome has been satisfactory and will in the end help to make sure Renard takes a much needed break.   
   
>>>  
   
There's really no other word for it, Nick lays in wait for Renard. He doesn't think of it as an ambush, though, more like a rescue mission, if he were to name it at all. And, ah yes, here comes his target... errr... his Captain.  
Just as the zauberbiest reaches his car, Nick intercepts him. Now one might think when watching him stride over to his vehicle that nothing is amiss but Nick has always been more observant than the next guy and Renard behind a steering wheel in his state simply won't do.  
   
"Captain. You're on your way to City Hall, aren't you?"  
Renard barely spares him a glance, or maybe he's just fully invested in trying to get his car keys fit into the keyhole. And isn't it a telltale sign of the zauberbiest's lacking health that he doesn't even think about using the automatic opener?  
"Yes, I am. And I need to be on time in case you weren't aware."  
This clearly is the polite version of 'Get lost already.' which could also translate to the dispassionate but no less decisive: 'You are dismissed, Burkhardt.'   
"I can drop you off there, Sir."  
Going by the Captain's reaction, illness cannot have mellowed him any. It's a marvel, albeit a slightly creepy one. Renard turns around slowly and if Nick's mission hadn't been so important, he would have scurried off right then and there. Well, his task IS important and Nick's never been one to shy away from danger.  
Meanwhile the half–zauberbiest has drawn himself up to his full height, obviously intent on distracting him from his sickly appearance with a healthy portion of intimidation and stern authority. In the low light of the parking garage he almost succeeds. Almost.  
"And for what reason, Detective, do you intent to do that?" The icy inquiry alone should tell Nick to leave the 'biest the hell alone but who is he to attribute sensibility to his own character traits? According to Monroe he doesn't possess an ounce of self–preservation, anyway, so here they are.  
"They didn't tell you, did they?"  
Furthering his game, letting chagrin slip into his tone. It's only half an act, either. What can he say, being questioned by Renard in an uncharitable mood can do that to you.  
"They didn't tell me _what_?"  
Paired with a fearsome if slightly grubby eyed glare this is the tightly controlled version of: 'Fuck off, Burkhardt, and let me drive my car in peace, half comatose state and raging fever non withstanding.'  
Nick plows on before the last scraps of bravery desert him and, man, Renard is good at all this intimidation without uttering a single direct threat stuff:  
"East Precinct needs your squad car for an undercover assignment. All on short notice, request coming straight from Captain O'Keave. They say they're sorry but it's necessary."  
"Do they now?"  
Renard's black stare says 'I'll give them reason to be sorry.' but he's too level headed and calculating to act on it. Or maybe he's just too sick. A mix of the two? Nick cannot say.   
"Yes, they do. But now we must hurry. Remember being on time and all that?"  
The only thing keeping Renard from biting the Grimm's head off is obviously the very real possibility of passing out as soon as he makes a single unplanned move. His eyes glitter dangerously all the same, but that might be a feverish shine for all that he knows. In any case Nick decides not to dwell on the matter overly long least his driving skills get hindered by acute fear of his superior Officer.  
"For what it's worth, they also say you'll have your car back in no time at all.“  
The Prince of Portland doesn't even deign that with an answer, striding off to Nick's car in such a fashion that only a long, billowing cape would be needed to make him appear like a villain out of some bad movie. Okay, given Renard's charisma it might even be a good movie.  
The Grimm hurries after his boss before his thoughts can veer any more off topic.  
   
>>>  
   
The Captain passes the car ride in brooding silence and Nick isn't stupid enough to break it. At least he hopes Renard is brooding instead of knocked out by a dead faint. It could be the case considering how bad he's looked earlier. Worry makes itself known to the Grimm and he chances a glance. Nope, no dead faint. Still brooding, still glaring, still up and about. So far so good.  
   
>>>  
   
"You doing okay with the case? Need me to come by and help?“  
Nick is leaning against an out of the way pillar in the atrium, cell at his ear and updating Hank now that Renard is off to the meeting.  
"Nah, all good here. You just take care that the Captain gets home alright. When I last saw him he seemed a whole lot paler than I'm comfortable with, we better not take any chances.“  
"In complete agreement. His color hasn't improved any since then and his sunny disposition has somewhat suffered either, so yeah, taking no chances.“  
"That's my man. If you need any help, just give a shout.“  
"Will do. Oh, and don't forget my super special coffee. The way our Captain is behaving I might need the stress relief later.“  
   
>>>  
   
After what has felt like eternity but in reality has only been two hours Renard has managed to get the speech and meeting done with. He must have been successful, too, because afterward there's been much praise and back clapping. The first has drifted by him in a mercifully foggy haze – really, sometimes he despises their empty drivel – while the second has been more contact with other people than he's ever been comfortable with.  
   
He makes his way into the atrium.... Or at least he thinks he does. Not only comments from other people but his surroundings as a whole seem to be drifting by. _God, it's like my head is packed with cotton! Particularly painful, spiky cotton!_

He hates not being at his best and he might just be indulging in a too high amount of self–pity.  
Anyway, this is fast turning from a nuisance to a full–fledged breech in his defenses and he ought to focus now.  
_Focus!_  
Getting down the stairs without taking a tumble becomes his imperative goal before the question of why the hell Burkhardt is waiting by the door rises up in his mind.  
_Maybe I'm getting delirious._

 _Or maybe not._  
It's really the Grimm he makes out in the admittedly hazy distance.   
Nick steps up to him then. Says something about his car. Something that should annoy him but pales in comparison to the pounding in his head that has reached disastrous proportions. He also would have liked to snap at him to either get on with it or leave him the hell alone but speaking would mean giving up any attempt to keep from coughing his lungs out and that would be….  
Unpleasant for so many reasons.  
In the end he just nods and follows his subordinate. Or is he being led? He cannot distinguish, a deficiency that frightens him more than anything else. But this is Nick, isn't it? So far the Grimm has neither betrayed him nor used any of their dealings in the past to his own advantage.  
Of course Nick's worry goes right over his head while the softly murmured reassurances reach him on a level that cannot be called conscious anymore.  
   
>>>  
   
Later Sean remembers nothing of the car ride to his house. He does remember coughing, though. Quite a lot and quite painfully. He recalls that it has left him breathless and scared. Scared on the inside while he's fought to maintain a strong facade. He has the feeling that Nick has picked up on his weakness, anyway. There have been more words. Gentle words not laced with pity or disdain but true concern.  
   
And now there's that warm hand gripping his arm, supporting him. He wants to flee from the contact, scared by the need to depend on someone else. Fleeing, however, would at this point mean crashing.  
Which simply wouldn't do for a Captain and Prince – illegitimately born or not.  
Somehow a soft surface appears under him. The couch, surely. He tells Nick that he can go now. His tone, he thinks, should project enough displeasure to get his message across but with his voice being only a hoarse croak he cannot be too sure.  
His Detective murmurs something acquiescing and he must have left after that because there is no sound at all for quite some time. Still, it almost feels as if it isn't his own feet leading him toward his bedroom. Not his feet alone, at least. But that cannot be. He _is_ getting delirious.  
   
It's of no matter. He sinks back onto his heavenly soft bed. Is made to sink back, perhaps? No, Burkhardt has left.  
A cool hand on his forehead. Yes, he must have put his own hand across his brow. Everything hurts. Chest, head, his very bones.  
He rises halfway, thinks that maybe he's had help. Again, not possible. The rim of a glass against his lips.  
When has he fetched that? It's of no consequence anyhow.   
Encouraging words. Funny. When has he gotten so good at self–delivered prep–talks?  
He swallows something that isn't water. He's drifting. Feeling protected and not as alone as he would have thought. At least when being alone in his house.  
A matter to consider on another day. Now he is steadily sinking into fuzziness. A pleasant haze, pain diminishing and breathing becoming easier.  
Nick is there watching over him. No, he is not. He must be dreaming. He….  
   
At this point sleep crashes over him in a tidal wave. He's neither aware of a certain Grimm undoing the first few buttons of his shirt nor of being covered with a blanket by the very same man.  
   
>>>  
  
When Renard makes to send him away, Nick makes a decision. He won't go, he won't budge, he will take care of his Captain, if he likes it or not. He prepares for an argument. Imagine his surprise then once he learns that the ever perceptive 'biest is too sick to do or notice much of anything. This is most worrisome but admittedly it makes things easier.   
And taking care he does. Helping the man to bed, pulling off shoes, taking away tie and suit jacket, undoing buttons. There's Rosalee's flu–remedy. He feeds it to the downed zauberbiest with a patience that none of his friends would ever associate with him. He's surprised by himself. But he's here to make him better, isn't he? He will do everything he can, end of discussion.  
  
More importantly: He is reassuring and soothing the man when it becomes clear that no one has ever done that before. _Helping_ when he's weak instead of pushing him away or questioning his worth. Renard is – in this unguarded moment at least, if at no other point – scared of his own powerlessness as much as of accepting care from someone else.   
Nick prevails. Not with force but gentle guidance. Feels for fever; does it a second time later on just to be sure that Rosalee's brew has brought relief. He cools his brow with a damp cloth.  
  
He waits and watches and on this one night he protects the powerful Ruler of wesen Portland.   
Renard isn't aware, not on a fully conscious level. That's okay. This is about healing, not recognition. This whole week and all their work over the last few days has been.  
  
>>>  
   
Sean wakes up hours later, sweat soaked, absolutely disgusted at his own sick state and with only a jumbled collection of memories. He is feeling a bit better, though. Still wretched but no longer half dead. Able to function – to some degree, he admits surly – but able to think more clearly at the very least. That in itself is an achievement.  
   
He gets out of bed, ignores how that nearly ends in an undignified tumble and takes a long, steaming hot shower.  
After that and two mugs of coffee he's more or less feeling like himself again. A look out of the window tells him that his car hasn't been returned to him yet but that is only a minor annoyance in the great scheme of things. Although he really needs to go into office and work through all the paperwork that has accumulated over the course of his appallingly inefficient week, he can always call a taxi to get there. So no problem at all.  
…And also a perfectly good excuse not to get behind a steering wheel himself. Not that he _couldn't_ … but with his car still used by East Precinct what's he to do? He takes up his phone and calls that taxi, never knowing that outside his house in an unmarked Police car four people stake out to see if or rather when he will leave his house.

 

  
**+1: All of them**

**Saturday, 8 am**

  
His halfway decent mood is about to deteriorate a short while later:  
Following his taxi's arrival he's just stepping outside with his briefcase in hand only to see Sergeant Franco sending away the very vehicle that should be taking him to work!  
_What in the blazes…?!_  
He makes to stride over and demand an explanation....  
"Good morning, Sir. May I...?"   
Sergeant Wu has stepped in front of him seemingly out of nowhere. That must be the case for how could it otherwise be that he hasn't noticed his approach? (The sick zauberbiest refuses to believe that his observatory powers may still be clouded by a damn simple cold.) And right now – the gall of that man – Wu takes his briefcase from him in such polite yet unyielding fashion that even the servants in his father's household would have been jealous of his skill.  
   
"What is the meaning of this?"  
He might not be at his best but his glare cannot have lost so much of its effect, so why is his Sergeant only smiling benignly?  
"You see, Sir...", says Burkhardt as he, too, materializes out of the blue to make his way over the lawn with Griffin and Franco in tow. So that's the reason. Wu has brought the cavalry, he thinks with distaste, not prepared to show any weakness in front of his subordinates.  
"You see, Sir, we've been lenient with you all week...."  
"Lenient?! What is that supposed to mean, Detective?" His cold hiss is all but ignored.  
_The nerve of these people!_  
"Well, Cap, there's nothin' wrong with a bit o' help. After all we knew how important that speech's been. For you an' us...." That's Franco, calm as ever.   
"But that is past now and you did great, Sir...."  
Nick.   
"So there's no need at all to go to work...."   
Hank.  
"...When you're clearly down with a bad cold, Sir."  
Wu is adding his piece as well. Of course he is.  
_God, did they rehearse their little hand in hand speech beforehand?_  
  
Sean wants to rebuke them sharply for their audacity but his budding tirade dies on his tongue when he takes note of where he is:  
_What the hell!? I am a durable, fearsome zauberbiest. I am a Bastard Prince, who has survived years on the run and I'm a damn Police Captain and their superior....! So how the hell have they managed to usher me back inside and all but_ tug me in _on the couch with a bloody blanket that's not even mine to begin with?!? And all that without my effing awareness no less!_  
   
He can only stare in consternation as Franco puts yet another, suspiciously familiar looking box into the microwave – feeling right at home in his kitchen by the looks of it – and Hank places a capped paper cup down in front of him, which bears the label of the very same high end coffee shop that _accidentally_ got his order wrong. Nick joins the fray, putting a tall glass of some unknown concoction before him, that his keen zauberbiest nose recognizes from God knows where. Wu is the last again, handing him his phone and telling him that he's turned it silent and that anyone calling (especially his esteemed colleague Frank Robertson) will only get the 'Do not disturb' line.   
   
He is still pondering the question of how the Asian has gotten to his phone in the first place while he crosses his arms over his chest and pins each of them with an icy, unrelenting stare. A few things make sense now.  
_They have played me! All week they have played me and I – fool that I am – haven't noticed a thing._  
As he mulls this over in his head he continues to glare at them in silence to make his disapproval prominently known. All of them have good poker faces but it's still clear that it doesn't leave them unaffected.   
He hopes to God that it doesn't!  
_Shall they squirm!_ He thinks with malice... or is that uncertainty? He feels betrayed, put out of his comfort zone and fears loss of control more than they can imagine.  
   
_Why have they done that? Why have they kept me away from meetings, forced food and drink on me, haven driven me_ home _for God's sake...?_  
   
Franco's words from earlier come back to him: There's nothing wrong with a bit of help....  
   
_Help. These four people – as unbelievable as it seems – have taken it upon themselves to help me through this week._  
   
The zauberbiest shakes his head, his stare mellowing slightly and loosing some of its icy reproach. When he gives them all an intent once over and pinches the bridge of his nose, they slump almost imperceptibly in relief. He hasn't lost his touch then. Good. It soothes his hurt pride (and primal zauberbiestly side) and a trace of amusement slips onto angular, slightly too pale features.  
   
"So the four of you have thought it necessary to initiate the week of mother–henning cops?"  
A raised eyebrow adds weight to his question and makes it clear that he expects an answer.  
"With all due respect, Captain, you would have had our hide, if one of us had pulled a stunt like you did this week."  
"With all due respect, he _did_ have my hide for that once", Nick adds sourly to his partner's little speech, making the other men snicker. Franco murmurs: "Sometimes rookies need to get their head washed if they insist on doing stupid things. That's they way it is."  
The fearsome Grimm huffs in annoyance and snipes right back: "That's been _years_ ago and, honestly, not only rookies disregard their health stupidly."   
He chances a tiny, narrow eyed stare at Renard sitting on the couch as if to say 'See?' but Wu pipes up before Nick can really say anything: "You're right. I even know a certain Detective who does this on regular basis to this very day and then wonders why he gets in trouble with his Captain...."   
   
Nick looks ready to explode and no matter how enjoyable this is, Sean clears his throat, effectively putting their squabbling to rest. He sets his focus on the group as a whole. Now that they've all said their piece in self–defense, even these grown men and trained cops cannot help shifting nervously under the scrutiny.  
"Let me tell you all then.... (He pauses for effect, relishing to see them squirm. Honestly, he's never pretended he's not enjoying the odd bit of revenge from time to time.) Thank you. I might not show it very often... or in so many words but I do appreciate your support and help. Even if I could do with a little less underhanded planning in the future."  
Though he ends sternly they still grin in relief and Nick even has the cheek to add: "If you promise to be approachable when qualms about your state of health are brought up to you, then we promise less scheming in the future.“  
   
He doesn't deign that with an answer and isn't that a funny feeling of deja vu? The thought is pushed away when Franco puts a plastic container filled with steaming, delicious smelling soup in front of him and from that point onward he's quite content to let his subordinates get their way, stay home and just enjoy the most tasty dish that has ever been made by womankind.  
   
After all, when he's told Franco's wife at the last Police barbecue that he's liked what she has prepared, he hasn't lied.  
Well, he has. But more along the line of hiding just _how damn much_ he has enjoyed that home cooked dish.   
   
He takes it with only a mildly skeptical (or maybe amused) twitch of a brow when one after another they bid him farewell and all subtly or not so subtly tell him what may happen to him if he were to enter Precinct before Wednesday at the earliest.  
   
He can only shake his head in bemusement once the front door closes for a fourth and final time, not at all sure what to think about this kind of patronizing. He is curiously sure, though, that the warm feeling in his chest isn't only due to ingesting hot food and drink. It is a realization he vows not to dwell too much upon. Or so he tells himself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's safe to say that our dear Captain will survive... except for when he shows his face at the station before Wednesday. But then again that would defeat the purpose of their actions, sooo.... Enough of my ramblings now. I hope this story made you smile a little bit. ;D


End file.
